


Here in Spirit

by mytimehaspassed



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Bank Robbery, F/F, F/M, M/M, Murder, Post-Series, Road Trips, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9431408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: His fingers are soft on her face, warm from the gun shot residue, from the blood that later turns brown, flakes off his palms like sunburn. Seth had shot one of the security guards; Richie had sunk his fangs into the soft flesh of his neck, tearing his jugular apart, just for a taste.She doesn’t mind the violence, not since her days as queen of the underworld.





	

I

They take Kate to see the sights: Tulsa, Phoenix, Cheyenne, Kansas City, skip over Abilene because they all know what happened there, Seth with his middle finger out as they pass the road sign, and they take the scenic routes, pull over at the roadside stops, buy tacky keychains and tee shirts at the nearest gas station for a hundred miles, Kate begging Seth for a pair of cheap two dollar sunglasses that break on the way to Winnemucca when she accidentally falls asleep on them in the backseat, Richie stealing her another, more expensive pair from one of the bank tellers in Marfa eight days later, sliding it over her nose with a smile, hiding the bloom of blood splatter on her cheekbone. 

His fingers are soft on her face, warm from the gun shot residue, from the blood that later turns brown, flakes off his palms like sunburn. Seth had shot one of the security guards; Richie had sunk his fangs into the soft flesh of his neck, tearing his jugular apart, just for a taste. 

She doesn’t mind the violence, not since her days as queen of the underworld. 

 

II

She keeps her father’s Bible in her bag, bringing it with her wherever she goes. She thumbs through the pages and leaves her fingerprints on the gold, dog-eared edges, and Seth catches her with it in one of the (continuous, indistinguishable, synonymous) motel rooms, same furniture as the last one, same carpet, same faux impressionist paintings that are hung slightly askew, inch-thick dust on the frames, and Seth asks her why she still carries that thing around, distaste curling his mouth like a comma, and she smiles sharply, with her teeth. 

“You never know when you might need an exorcism.” She makes the sign of the cross, forehead to shoulders, and Richie, who stands in the bathroom doorway in nothing but a towel knotted loosely on his hip, shudders like he’s supposed to. 

“Not funny,” Seth says softly, biting his lower lip, and Kate turns away when Richie reaches out, his naked palm rough on the back of Seth’s neck. 

Kate pretends that she doesn’t know what this means, what they mean to each other, and they pretend that they don’t know what she means to them. 

 

III

Richie still feeds. 

They stop at malls, at restaurants, at convenience stores, and Richie flirts with women, with men, just long enough to pull them into the bathroom, into a dark corner somewhere, his lips on their neck. Flushed and swollen and aching, they taste like desire, Richie’s fingers sliding over them, his mouth filled with blood, and sometimes he fucks them first, or lets them fuck him, his fists curling, gripping clothes and skin and hair, a woman and her soft mouth on the column of his throat, letting him push her into a handicap stall, his hands on her hips, sliding her skirt up and up and up, a man and his palms flat and callused on Richie’s back, bending him over one of the sinks, Richie with his face pressed against the mirror, his breath escaping in plumes. 

Those times, Seth just seems disappointed, looking away when Richie finds them again in the crowd, tucking his shirt back into his pants. He’s disheveled, tired and fucked out and full, and his mouth is swollen and red, and Seth presses his thumb to Richie’s jaw, says, “Lipstick,” rubbing the pink smear until it’s gone, his face blank, hard to read. 

In the car, a few miles out, right before the call for an ambulance, the police, a while before the TV stations will cover the murder on the six o’clock news, another unexplained death in a long line of unexplained deaths across the country, Seth will pull over and slap the steering wheel hard, and Richie will look out the window and make a bored-sounding hum, and Kate will feign sleep, her hoodie pulled up, covering her face. Seth will say something stupid like, “You don’t need to,” and stop, because he can’t, he really can’t keep doing this. His fingers curl into fists; it’s the same old argument. 

He sighs out loud and doesn’t look at Richie when he says again, “You don’t need to.” 

And, “I’m right here.”

The holes in Seth’s skin that are mistaken for track marks, in the crook of his elbows, the bend of his knees, right there in the soft spot behind his ear, Seth has always been available for Richie to take. 

Richie takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, one large palm engulfing his face, and he swallows, can still taste blood on the back of his throat. He had left her curled in on herself, slumped against the bathroom stall, her skin pale enough to blend in with the tile floor, lifeless, her lips and tongue and nails blue, drained. She never gave him her name, he never asked, doesn’t particularly care. 

“Seth,” Richie says softly, doesn’t move to look at him, doesn’t say anything else, doesn't need to, they both know that Seth has never been enough. 

“Fuck, Richard,” Seth says, a long, drawn-out breath. 

They both know that Richie just likes to kill. 

 

IV

They plan jobs. 

Scott emails Kate with links to some conspiracy theory websites, fake Twitter accounts, dedicated Tumblr pages, all allegations that the Gecko Brothers are back from the dead. None of them mention the red-haired teenager that has been seen on the last three, four, five jobs, no one mentions the deaths that follow in their wake, no one wants to ruin the legend. 

They plan jobs, a bank here, a bank there, Richie with his ear to the vault and Seth and Kate with their eyes on the hostages, and it’s not like before but only because it’s better, Seth and Kate moving in one fluid motion when Richie says he’s cracked it, taking the thick stacks with both hands. It’s not like before but only because Kate - despite her upbringing, despite the beliefs, the faith she carries around in her back pocket like a habit - is what they were missing, a natural, a born goddamn talent. 

She holds up her gun with a smile, and Seth and Richie follow her lead. 

 

V

In Memphis, Richie kills a bookstore owner and inherits a beautifully-illustrated deck of Tarot cards. Kate carefully plucks them out of their cloth bag with her painted fingers and shuffles the deck, laying them out on the motel room bedspread. 

Richie sits across from her, tucking one long leg underneath him. He has blood on the corner of his mouth, and Kate looks at it and then looks away. The shower is running; Seth never feels clean after Richie eats.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Richie asks. He’s out of his suit, which doesn’t even feel strange to Kate anymore, with how many times she’s seen Seth and Richie out of their work clothes and in little else. They’ve been sharing motel rooms, Seth and Richie in one bed and Kate in the other, an arrangement that mystifies the motel staff, and maybe sometimes Kate herself. 

(There have been times when Kate has almost pushed the boundaries, in the morning hours when she rolls over and sees Richie with his nose buried in the crook of Seth’s neck, Seth’s fingers curled around the bottom of Richie’s tee shirt, in the times between jobs, walking in on Seth and Richie in more than one compromising position, times when she had wanted so badly to run her fingers through Seth’s hair, to touch the bow of Richie’s mouth, wanted so badly to ask them if it was okay, pulling her shirt over her head and joining them, letting them take her, letting them eat her alive.

She has always stopped herself, though, has always shied away from this thing, this thing that they have that she could never come between, no matter how much she loved them and they loved her.)

“My mother,” she says softly, and Richie looks surprised at that. “What?”

“Never figured.” He looks down at the three cards, a beginner’s spread, and pushes his glasses higher up his nose. 

“I only know the basics,” Kate says, and turns over the cards. High Priestess, reverse Hierophant, The World. “Scott was much better at this than I was.”

“I’m sure you’re perfect,” Richie says, and smiles at her. 

She bites her lip. Richie doesn’t hear voices anymore, doesn’t see Santanico Pandemonium through the eye in his palm, might not be as crazy as he used to be, but he has always scared her. Even with everything they’ve been through, even in this new life, with what they have, what they do, he still scares her. 

She looks down at the cards and then back up to him, choosing her words carefully, says, “Anything you want to ask them?”

Richie looks at her for a long moment, and then turns his head to the bathroom door. He says, his voice a hush, one long breath, “No.”

Kate’s pretty sure Richie has always scared Seth, too. 

 

VI

They stop at an all-night diner for provisions, and Seth leaves Kate at the booth, but only to pull Richie past the kitchen and into the back bathroom. “Fuck, I’ve missed this,” Seth says, as soon as the door is locked, biting at Richie’s mouth, watching the red spots bloom. 

“Missed what?” Richie asks, breathless, his hands on Seth’s buckle, on his own shirt, pulling it up and over his head between kisses. “We do this all the time.”

“Not in public.” Seth turns Richie around and places his tongue on the back of Richie’s neck, traces Richie’s spine, bites down hard on his shoulder, and Richie makes a noise, too loud, so Seth covers his mouth with his palm. 

Back before Carlito and El Rey and prison, before Seth was even married to Vanessa, they got good at this, at hiding this from prying eyes. Seth thinks maybe Uncle Eddie always knew, maybe he wasn’t as stupid as they always thought he was, thinks maybe even Vanessa knew, deep down, somewhere in a place she didn’t want to admit it, in a place she could still pretend things were good between her and Seth. 

Seth can feel Richie’s breath against his palm, in and out, and knows that if he asked, Richie would gladly bite him back, fangs as sharp as the serpent’s inside him, venom as deadly. Seth pushes against him, in and out, and Richie moans, his forehead slick on the bathroom door. 

The door handle rattles, uselessly, and then someone bangs on it from the other side, and Richie says, “Fuck,” against Seth’s hand, but it’s more a moan than anything else, Richie pushing back up against Seth, his hips moving and moving. 

Seth says, “C’mon, Richie,” in that same tone of voice that he always uses when things go south on a job, when he’s there to pick up the pieces, when he wants Richie to know that he’s in fucking charge here, and Richie stutters once, his wet mouth, his warm breath, and then comes. 

Seth says his name again, sweat-slick lips mouthing Richie’s shoulder again and again, and he moves his hand away from Richie’s face, presses it to his chest, holding him tight, and Richie reaches back to pull him closer, his nails scratching, scraping the skin on the back of Seth’s neck. He uses his claws and Seth sees white and Richie says, “Please,” and it’s not please yes, it’s not please more, it’s Richie begging, it’s Richie pleading for Seth’s answer to the same fucking question that he always asks. “Please, Seth.”

Richie pushes back against him, in and out, and Seth closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything, his teeth on his own tongue, coating his mouth with his own blood, and Richie says, “Just one bite,” and Seth makes a choking sound, half of a sob, feels like he’s burning up in his own skin. 

“We can live together forever,” Richie says, a whisper, and the person outside bangs on the door again, louder this time, angrier, and Richie growls low and deep in his chest, his face almost sliding out of control, danger close to showing his true colors, and Seth feels an ache deep inside him. 

Richie says, “Fuck, Seth,” his voice hoarse, venomous. 

Richie says, his thumb on Seth’s throat, “We’ll be gods.”

And Seth comes. 

 

VII

When Seth dreams, it's of El Rey.

 

VIII

They take a job in Atlantic City, a lead from a friend of a friend of a friend, a debt that Seth never plans on collecting. It’s quick and painless and nobody fucks up, but before they cash out their chips and walk away from the table, Kate books them a room in the honeymoon suite at the Tropicana because she thinks it’s funny. 

Richie and Seth go out gambling, and she orders room service and binges on reality TV and takes a long bath with the door wide open and forgets that she's not just a teenager on vacation or a school field trip or something, opening the minibar and swallowing the tiny bottles of top shelf liquor with no remorse. She drunk dials Scott and leaves him teary, apologetic voicemails, telling him that she's sorry for leaving him, that she's sorry for not wanting to be around someone who chose this life, telling him that she can see why he did what he did, she can understand, but she can’t forgive him for it, not yet. 

She says, her voice hushed against the phone receiver, her words slurred, marbles inside of her mouth, she says that she will still pray for him every night, and does, her lips to God's ears, praying for Scott and and Seth and Richie and sometimes even herself. 

She says, her voice soft and wavering, “Please come home.”

She says, “Please come find me.”

She dries her tears and orders more room service and then, as an afterthought, a bottle of champagne, something old and expensive that the sommelier brings up to her from the hotel’s reserve, all smiles, accepting her one hundred dollar tip with a promise to bring her anything she needs. She drinks until the bottle is empty, feeling full but not finished, feeling unsettled, restless. 

She channel surfs until she finds one of those pay channels, and she uses Richie’s credit card to order dirty movies, watching them with one hand slipping inside her jeans and the other pulling her shirt up, pushing her fingers under her bra. 

She comes three times before she decides that she wants something real, something more, and so she borrows one of their (good) fake IDs and stumbles down to the bar, sitting on one of the stools with her flushed cheek slumped on the cold granite. She tries to sober up, not look quite as drunk as she feels, and ends up practicing flirting with the bartender, smiling when she winks at her, smiling when she asks if Kate wants another, handing her one more brightly colored cocktail, the bartender's perfectly pink lips, her manicured nails and highlighted hair, the long line from her collarbone on down. 

Kate looks at her perfectly tanned, perfectly curved chest and then looks up and says, her voice just above a prayer whisper, "Do you want to get out of here?"

Thirty minutes later, they fuck in the bartender's car, despite Kate's room upstairs, and Kate doesn't tell her that this is something that she has never done, that this is entirely new, but the bartender knows it anyway, can tell by the way Kate hesitates before every kiss, before she runs her hands through the bartender's hair, before she lets her snake her fingers up Kate's shirt and over her bra, her nails scratching lightly on Kate's skin. 

This is Kate's first time - for everything - and the bartender treats her gently, delicately, holds Kate's face between her hands softly, kisses her even softer, the smooth, effortless way she moves her hand under Kate's shirt, soft on her stomach, soft over her ribs, even softer as she slides her fingers under Kate's bra this time, brushes her thumb over Kate's nipple, and Kate breathes in sharply and says, "More," and all of a sudden, she's hungry, rough, pushes against the bartender and grabs with her palms, her fingers, her nails, reaching for more and more, biting her lips and chin and neck, ripping the bartender's shirt off, over her head, almost breaking the clasp of her bra, and the bartender moans against her and says, "Whatever you want," her voice quiet between them, "Whatever you want," her mouth swallowing Kate's thumb, her lips wet and obscene. 

When she was queen, Kate had thought about this a lot. 

When she was queen, it was all she could think of, besides the murders, besides the blood, besides the desire to rip out everyone's heart and turn the world upside down, inside out, this was everything and nothing and in between, and she missed it.

She kisses the bartender, Kate's warm hand slipping between her thighs, and she wants to taste her, wants to open her up like a flower and drink everything from inside out, Kate's teeth on the bartender's shoulder, her lips and tongue, she wants to swallow her whole, to devour her, and before she can think about what she's doing, she's biting down, nipping at first, nothing serious, but then harder, hard enough to break the skin, the bartender's shoulder turning white from the pressure and then red when it breaks, the blood welling up, and then Kate is biting down even harder, her teeth sharp in her mouth, biting to taste, to forget what it was like when she fell from glory, when she became human again. 

The bartender cries out in pain, and Kate holds on tighter, doesn’t let her pull back, bruises her arms with her grip, the bartender shaking, straining, and Kate growling for her to stop. She says, “What the fuck?” her voice high-pitched, strangled, but Kate doesn’t answer her, doesn’t want to ruin this, this whatever this is. 

It's strange at first, this sensation of skin and blood in her mouth, but something feels right, feel satiated, something deep inside of her from when she was queen, and Kate makes a noise low in her throat, knows that she wants more, knows that even though the queen is gone, even though she is herself again, this is what she wants. 

Kate swallows and reaches for more, her nails scrabbling, clawing at her skin, and the bartender opens her mouth to scream, but Kate clamps her hand down, covering her mouth, silencing any protest. She tongues the bite, the place where her nails have made it worse, and she drinks the blood that seeps into the dip of the bartender's collar bone, and she feels the bartender breathing in, breathing out, ragged, deep breaths, and she tastes the salt from her tears. 

Kate licks her lips and says, "You taste like vanilla.” 

The bartender lets out a sob. 

 

IX

She lets the bartender go on shaky, bloodless legs. 

Kate watches as she starts the car with trembling hands, turning the engine over and peeling out of the parking lot, the overhead lights washing over her tear-stained cheeks, her wounded shoulder. She's lost blood, but nothing else; Kate had stopped herself before it went too far. 

When she gets back to the room, she doesn't tell Seth or Richie what happened, doesn't explain away the drying blood on her mouth, and later she'll run her hands under the tap and ask herself if she's fucked up everything she was trying so hard to save. She lets the faucet run as she cries, hoping it will drown out the sound, hoping against hope that Richie or Seth won’t hear, but there’s a knock on the bathroom door a minute later, and Richie’s voice coming through the wood, asking her if she’s okay. 

She quickly rubs her hands over her face, trying to dry her tears, but she still looks like a mess, mascara smeared underneath her eyes, the bartender’s lipstick on the underside of her chin. She can hear the TV in the other room, Seth cracking open another bottle of beer, and she makes her decision, opens the door and lets Richie in, closing it quietly behind him. 

“Are you okay?” He asks again, and Kate can see a red mark on his neck, what she’s sure is a perfect imprint of Seth’s mouth.

"What was it like?" she asks instead of answering, her voice hoarse from crying, and Richie raises an eyebrow from where he sits on the toilet lid, confused. She turns back towards the mirror and looks at herself and sees nothing different, nothing the same. "What was it like when you first killed someone?"

Richie bites his lip and hums low in his throat. 

Kate can tell that he wants to say something, but has thought better of it, maybe because of how she looks, or what he thinks of her, so she reaches out and touches his hands, says, without words, that she wants to hear. She wants to know how he became the way he is. 

Eventually, his voice coarse, unused, he says, "It was exhilarating." He’s steady, solid, completely unwavering. It’s one of the only times that she’s seen him so in the moment, no visions, no voices, no ghosts from the past. 

"It was a long time coming, though, so I don't think that's really want you meant. He," Richie stops, starts again, "He used to hit Seth all the time, used to call me stupid. He would get drunk and he would blame us for killing our mother and I just wanted it to stop."

Kate sat on the edge of the tub, a breath away from him, her hands in her lap, clean. "Your dad?"

"Yeah," he says. And then he smiles, and Kate sees the Richie that she’s always known, the Richie that she first met. ”I set him on fire in his sleep."

Kate shivers; feels like her old self again. 

 

X

When Richie dreams, it’s of Xibalba.

 

XI

Right before winter hits, they rent a cabin in a sleepy, coastal New England town. Kate begs them to go swimming in the (freezing) ocean at night, when all the lights in the beachfront houses are off, when the tidal waves crawl across the shore and then back out again, the sand - long from being sun-warmed - feeling alive between their toes. Richie watches her out there because he's the only one that can see that clearly in the dark, because Seth asks him to, because he would have done it anyway, this thing between him and Seth that never excludes Kate.

Seth leans against the car door as Kate strips on the beach, down to her mis-matched, pale pink underwear, running into the water with an unholy shriek, just as someone's dog starts barking up the shore. She splashes around for awhile, and Richie leans next to Seth, the collar of his shirt bright under the dim light of the moon, and Seth reaches for him because he wants to feel, because he wants his hands on him, and Richie lets him. 

There's a dog walker up the road, and a couple parked on the opposite side of the parking lot, obviously otherwise engaged, but nobody is looking at them here, now, so it’s easy to feel safe, to feel alone together. They’ve never been ashamed of this, the comfort they take in each other, they’ve never thought that this was wrong. 

Richie shivers a little as the wind picks up, Seth warm against him, and he pulls him tighter, closes his eyes for a moment, all at once tired, restless, ready to go on to the next town, ready to plan the next job. They needed to stop for awhile, Seth had said as much - both Richie and Kate agreeing, if not reluctantly - all of them not too happy with the heat they've incurred in the past couple of weeks, from the news stories that have now started to crop up, with all of these copycat bank heists, questioning the investigation of the Gecko Brothers' deaths. 

The Ranger had done his best, but Richie knows that that might not be enough. 

Seth says, "We can stop by the bar on the way back, get you something to eat."

Richie's skin feels cold under his fingers, and Seth kisses his neck, the underside of his chin. "You haven't eaten for days, you must be hungry."

Richie makes a sound that Seth can't translate, and says, "I didn't know you were keeping tabs."

There's a shriek from the water, and Seth looks out there, but can hardly see anything besides shadows. The waves crash into the shore again and again and again, louder than anything else, and they're both on alert, both hyper sensitive to the sounds of Kate splashing around out there in the distance, but then Richie relaxes against him. "She found some seaweed," Richie says, in explanation. 

Seth turns back to him, can make out the features of Richie's face, but not his expression. He sighs; back to the same old argument. "You can always get it from me, if you want." I'm here, he doesn't say, and: I’m here for you. 

Richie doesn't say anything, tries to silently extract himself from Seth’s hold, and Seth knows that he's pushing it again, so he kisses him as a distraction, presses his thumbs into Richie's cheeks and leaves him breathless. 

Richie feels ravenous, feels heavy underneath him, pushing and pulling, and they're kissing hard, Richie wanting more than Seth will give him, or maybe the other way around, Seth asking for something Richie will never give, and Richie makes a sound, soft, keening, and Seth says his name and slips a hand into, between, under Richie's pants, beneath his briefs, Seth's warm hand on Richie's cold skin, and it's ridiculously easy to get him off, ridiculously easy to fit his fingers around Richie and tug, gently, Seth's mouth on Richie's mouth, and someone is moaning, but neither are sure which one it is. 

Seth pulls, scraping his nails lightly on the underside of Richie's cock, and Richie shivers and comes and collapses against him, and Seth pulls his hand out, wet now, sticky, and leans away from him. 

"You don't have to - " Seth starts to say, nothing if not persistent, but Richie cuts him off by biting Seth’s bottom lip. He draws blood; Seth doesn't mind. 

Kate comes barreling up the beach towards them and Seth pulls back from Richie, running his tongue over his lips, tasting metal. Kate looks between them, curious, but doesn't say anything about the way that they're not looking at each other, at Seth's rolled up sleeve, his wet fingers, only uses her shirt to towel herself off, wringing her hair out into the sand. 

She's shivering, and Seth wants to pull her to him, but says instead, "C'mon, I'll turn the heat on," and ushers both of them into the car. 

 

X

There's a winter carnival in town, Kate finds the flyer on their windshield one morning when she ventures out to get groceries. Richie is still asleep when she gets back, the door open wide enough that she can see his bare back peeking out from the sheets, and she imagines running her hands through his loose hair, soft to the touch, imagines placing her small palms on his skin, a gluttonous thought, and she swallows to shake it away. Seth is sitting on the barstool at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee, sleep still clinging to his face. 

She hands him the flyer and asks, "Can we?" smiling and smiling. 

He says, "Really?" furrowing his brow, the curl of distaste enveloping his mouth. "You want to go to this?" He points at the big, bold letters. "Their main attraction is a psychic." 

Kate laughs. "You don't want to know your future?"

"No," Seth says, and looks past her through the open door to Richie's sleeping form. "Not really."

But he takes her out that night, anyway, with Richie in tow, wearing sunglasses at night like an absolute asshole, and they ride the ferris wheel and tilt-a-whirl and buy hot chocolates from one of the vendors. Kate goes in to see the psychic by herself and comes out disappointed. 

"No crystal ball?" Seth asks, just to be a dick, and Kate gives him a look. 

"No talent," she sighs. "I could have read the cards better."

Richie says, "I'll go," and Seth almost stops him, almost pulls him back, but decides against it. 

Richie slips through the tent flap and sits down on the rickety folding chair and places the money on the dish next to her. She smiles at him, not as ethereal as he would have imagined, not as other-worldly, dark-skinned and dressed normally, her lips the shade of blood red that he always finds himself attracted to, wide and edible. 

She makes a gesture to his sunglasses, says, “Please,” in this soft, beautiful voice, so he reaches up to take them off. The world is fuzzy without his glasses, blurred around the edges. 

She says, "Can I read your palm?" and he shrugs and holds it out, her hand small on his. 

She traces his lifeline with the curve of her finger, her nail sharp against him, and says, “You’ll lose him, you know.” She looks up at him and her teeth are white and sharp in her mouth, and Richie tries to pull his hand away - the hand with the eye - but she holds him tight, stronger than any human he’s every met. 

She’s not trying to scare him or pick a fight, he knows that that’s not her goal, but he feels angry anyway, wants to growl and shake her off and bite into her, his teeth and fangs, wants to tear her limb from limb. He stops himself, forces down the anger, and he knows that she can feel his restraint, the power that surges through him, the venom in his veins, but he doesn’t frighten her, either. 

“One day, after the end, you will wake up and he will be gone, Señor Gecko.” Her face starts to shift, to become more angular, more oblong, bends and contours and scars that were not there before, fangs slipping silently out of her mouth, and Richie can feel the snake inside of him twist, want out. “Los Hermanos Gecko will be no more.”

It takes him two tries to open his mouth, to force out the words without wanting to shout, without wanting to break the entire table in two, her along with it, and when he does, he sounds like he’s been swallowing glass, his tongue shredded. “Where will he go?”

“To El Rey, Richard,” she says, as if he hasn’t been paying attention, her words painfully slow, painfully obvious. Her nails are digging into his wrist, his pulse quickening beneath them. “And you will go to Xibalba. You will never be together again.”

“How - “ he starts to say, but then stops himself. He knows how, the queen had been telling him for months. “It’s his choice,” he says finally, and he says it as if it’s not up for debate, as if he hasn’t been trying to change Seth’s mind for a year now. 

The psychic rolls her eyes, clearly bored with the conversation now, and she changes again, her face returning back to its original form. She doesn’t let go of his hand. “Whatever you do, Señor Gecko,” she says, sighing, “Make sure he chooses before it’s too late.”

Richie’s hand is trembling now, with anger or fear, he’s not so sure. 

She traces his lifeline again, her nail breaking skin, the blood welling up on his palm. “You’re going to have a long life,” she says, holding his bloody palm open. “But he won’t.”

 

XI

Seth starts to get cabin fever after the first heavy snowfall. 

He sleeps in and eats almost everything in the pantry and fucks Richie - softly, slowly, his fingers in Richie's mouth, pressing down on his tongue, so neither of them make a sound - and watches TV and reads the tacky romance novels that were left behind after the last renter, and after two days he wants to tear the fucking walls down. It reminds him of prison, killing time, literally, grabbing time by its fucking throat and tearing out its jugular with his fucking teeth, and he takes shower after shower to feel something, the water that pounds the base of his skull in steady rhythms, as hot as he can stand it, and he goes out into their bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and Richie - who’s fucking around with the schematic of the next job just like Seth told him not to - doesn’t even look up, doesn’t say anything, just pushes his glasses up his nose, looking as smug as he always does, the fucking smart ass face he makes, and Seth wants to kill him, this hot flash of anger that licks up his spine, he wants to take one of his guns and press it to Richie’s temple and pull the trigger and tell him to fucking come back from this one. 

Seth makes a sound, and Richie looks up, and says, “Hope you didn’t use up all the hot water.”

It hurts Seth more than Richie when he punches him, and he knows his knuckles will thank him later, Richie’s teeth splitting the skin on one of them, but right now Seth hardly cares, watching Richie wipe the blood from his mouth with the pad of his thumb. 

“What the fuck, Seth?” he asks.

“Fuck you, Richard,” Seth says. “What did I say about touching that?” He points to the pile of papers Richie has laid out on the table. 

“Jesus,” Richie says, and he’s giving Seth the look that Seth usually reserves for him, confused and angry and maybe a little scared. “I won’t touch it again, asshole.”

Seth’s not done, though, and he knows that he should stop, he knows that he should just ride it out, but he can’t, he won’t, not again. “What are you even fucking doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out, prowling around, looking for your next victim?”

Richie flashes him a look, his eyes dark, and Seth keeps pushing. “I’m sure there are some little old ladies out there you would love to sink your teeth into.”

Richie doesn’t even get out Seth’s name before Seth hits him again, this time knocking his glasses off his face and onto the floor, his cheekbone already starting to turn red. Richie growls low in his throat and his face changes, this sickening crunch, the slide of his fangs, but at least he takes the bait, his fist going for Seth’s face, Seth fending him off, miraculously getting one more punch in, and that’s three for Seth and zero for Richie, and Seth winks at him, this wicked smile on his face, and Richie spits out blood on the floor and calls him a son of a bitch.

Seth says, “That’s your mother, too, genius,” and laughs. “You’re a fucking prodigy, Richard, that’s for sure.”

Richie tackles him, and then they’re on the floor, punching and kicking and elbowing, Seth's fingernails going for Richie’s face, and Richie hisses and sinks his fangs into Seth’s shoulder and Seth makes a noise, hurt or angry or - hell - even turned on, he’s not so sure, but doesn’t try to push him off. Richie’s mouth on Seth’s shoulder, and Seth’s nails are scraping, scratching Richie’s back, his neck, and he can feel himself getting hard - the weirdest sensation considering the blood he’s losing - and he can also feel Richie getting hard, too, and he says, “Richie,” his voice low, almost a whisper. 

It’s a warning or a promise or a plea. 

And he does it again: “Richie.” 

And Seth’s whole body tingles. 

Richie pulls his fangs out and his mouth is smeared with Seth’s blood, and they’re both breathing hard, Seth’s shoulder a faint, almost pulsating ache, and Richie kisses him and they both taste like blood, and Seth’s fingers work quickly, deftly, on Richie’s pants, and then Seth is turning over and Richie is against him, and Seth’s cheek is pressing down on the dirty floor, the cold wood on his skin, pushing against it again and again as Richie pushes into him, and Richie is kissing the back of his neck, leaving a wet, bloody print of his lips, and Seth feels warm, feels like he’s burning up. 

Neither of them say anything. 

Not even when they’re finished, Richie pulling out of Seth and wiping himself off with the towel Seth had left on the floor, pulling up his jeans, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but can’t, blood still smeared across his face. Seth stays where he is for a moment, breathing in the dust and dirt, his wet mouth, before he gets up on his hands and knees, feeling old, feeling ancient. He stands up and goes back to the bathroom, washes himself off again, the holes in his shoulder burning, on fire, and he leans his forehead against the slick tiles, his palms bracing the wall, and closes his eyes. 

After a moment, Richie joins him, his fingers fanning out on the place between Seth’s shoulder blades, rough, unforgiving. He doesn’t apologize, he never apologizes. 

And the hot water runs out just as Seth starts to cry. 

 

XII

Kate does it again.

In Ohio, a man, Kate’s bloody mouth, her teeth tearing and clawing and severing, her fingers, her fists against his face, his head, his chest. Richie helps her clean up the mess, the body, the man, Kate’s blurred vision as she watches him pick it - him - up and place him - it - into the trunk of their car. Richie, who helps her without a word, without ever questioning why, and Kate cries for an hour, maybe two, until there’s nothing left, the taste of metal still on the back of her tongue, no matter how many times she washes her mouth out. 

She says, later, much later, Richie’s hand swallowing her own, the skin and blood and dirt underneath her fingernails, “Please don’t tell him,” and Richie presses his lips together into a thin, white line, and nods solemnly. 

This isn’t her, she thinks. This isn’t her, this isn’t her, this isn’t her. 

She watches as Richie lights a match, watches as the body, the man, begins to catch, begins to burn.

This isn’t her. 

This isn’t her. 

 

XIII

This is her. 

 

XIV

In Illinois, their job is cut and dry, in and out, the same old bank heist that they’re used to. 

Richie’s face is clean, devoid of any of the bruises Seth had left with his fists a month before, but they’re still wary of each other, the bite that acts up every now and again when Seth twists his neck the wrong way, Richie’s palm hesitating over Seth’s skin for a moment, two, like he’s asking permission. They’ve been avoiding each other as much as they can in the small space of the motel, sleeping with their backs to each other in the same bed, each of them taking turns bringing Kate out on errands. They’ve only spoken a handful of words to each other, and even Kate can see that something is going on, but all three of them are too afraid to say anything. 

Richie feeds alone, when he can, when he has to, when he has no choice. 

The near-constant hum of hunger inside of him is palpable. It starts to wear down his edges, he starts to feel like his old self again, lost in the woods with only Santanico to guide him, the eye in his hand that shows him the world he’s become accustomed, and she comes to him one night in what he thinks is a dream, her fingers in his hair. She says his name, softly, and when he looks at her, her face is awash in colors, the brown of her eyes, the red of her lips, the glowing complexion, and her breath tickles his ear when she leans in close to him, her face and hands and body radiating heat that crawls over him. 

She says, “You need to eat, Richard.”

The lilt of her smile as she looks down at him, and he wants to touch her so badly he can taste the desire between his teeth. He says, “I can’t," and then “I’ll lose him,” and then he closes his eyes and opens them again, but Santanico is still there, the light haloing her head above him. 

She says, “You’ve already lost him, Richard.” And then he thinks she feels bad for saying that, because she brushes one of her thumbs over his eyebrow, soothingly, and says, “You still need to eat.”

He says her name, soft in his mouth, and she leans closer, her voice a whisper between them. 

She says, “You need to be ready.”

“Ready for what?” he asks, dream-like. He wants to reach out, reach up, and kiss her, but he knows that she will no longer tolerate his mouth, she will no longer reach out and kiss him back. 

She says, "Richard," but it's Seth's voice, Seth’s face hovering over him, his palm almost but not quite touching his face, saying, “Richard," the concerned bow of his mouth. 

He doesn't tell Seth about Santanico’s visit, but he does take Seth’s wrist when Seth offers it, places his mouth gently on one of Seth’s veins, Seth’s quiet wince of pain when Richie extends his fangs. He drinks enough to satisfy himself and also make Seth sleepy and quiet, Seth kissing him after Richie washes his mouth out with water from the bathroom sink. Seth has a washcloth wrapped around his arm, drops of blood seeping through the cheap motel fabric, and Richie’s careful not to move it when he kisses him back. 

They fuck for the first time since that night in the cabin. Kate had left on (another) liquor store run, and they’re quick and quiet, and afterwards Seth buries his mouth in the crook of Richie’s shoulder and asks him what’s going on. Richie fingers the place where his fangs were, the broken skin on Seth’s wrist, and doesn’t say a word. 

“Richard,” Seth says, pulling back to look him in the face. 

“Please,” Richie says. He closes his eyes, remembers the way Santanico had comforted him like a child, and then opens them again. Just. “Please.”

And Seth finally looks away. 

 

XV

Richie fucks up. 

 

XVI

Kate had been drunk, or at least that’s what she tells them afterwards in the motel, her palms bare in front of her, blood brown. She had had a bottle of something for breakfast - Richie hadn’t noticed, but Seth had, his eyebrows raised in a warning, a promise, taking her by the elbow in the elevator on the way to the car, saying, after the doors close, “You better cut this shit out if you want to stay on this crew,” shaking her enough that she had smiled viciously, sharply, enough to wound - and she had gone through the job too loose and languid, too reckless, making stupid mistakes, rookie errors, not tying up the hostages, almost letting one of the teller’s push the panic button, all easily avoidable, and Seth had called her stupid, told her to keep her eyes open and her mouth shut, and of course she didn’t listen to him, never listens to him, even when it’s something important. 

And all of a sudden, there had been flash of movement in the corner of his eye, and then Seth had had to pull her off a security guard when one had gotten a little too close to her, the guard’s fingers itching towards the weapon on his belt that Kate had forgotten to remove. Kate had pushed him to the floor, her knees on his chest, threatening to choke off his next breath, and Seth had caught her pressing her gun to the guard’s temple hard enough to bruise, the guard blubbering and pleading and crying out for his wife, his children, for God above. 

And after she had secured him, scared him, Kate had sat back on her haunches with this bored look on her face, sunglasses obscuring her eyes, ridiculously close to Richie-level carelessness, Richie-level psychosis, breathing quietly in the space between them, saying nothing. 

This is her. 

This is her.

This is her. 

And Seth had said, “Enough,” his voice nothing more than a growl, pulling her off of the security guard and onto her feet again, slipping the gun into the small of his back, snug between his belt and his shirt, and Kate had shrugged and blew a bubble with her gum, popping it so loudly that several of the tellers had jumped where they sat on the floor, heads down, hands out in front of them, palms up, looking suicidal enough - sacrificial enough - to wake up the queen inside of her. Kate had laughed then, and Richie, too, from where he was standing on his way to the vault, looking between Seth and Kate. 

Richie was having fun, Kate was having fun, and Seth had had this pained look on his face like he just watched their professionalism take a swan dive over the edge of a cliff, stuck with two psychopaths who used to be - who are - something other than human. This was what he had been afraid of, this thing that held Richie for so long and was now slowly sinking its claws into Kate, this was what he had been running from in Mexico, after the Titty Twister. 

He was losing his grip on them, had probably already lost them, and he was somehow only now just realizing that he was never getting them back, not like how they used to be. 

He had opened his mouth to say something then, but another loud pop - this time not from Kate - interrupted his train of thought. 

He hadn’t been paying attention, none of them had been paying attention, so none of them saw what the bank manager looked like when the shot was fired, his hands shaking with the effort to pull the trigger on the snub-nosed .38 from wherever he had slipped it out of, his sock or pants pocket or jacket or wherever, and Richie had wheeled around fast enough to pull out his own gun and fire before the man could take another pot shot, the blood and bone that rained from the bank manager’s skull, the perfect hole drilled into his forehead, his body falling like a bag of bricks, a loud, wet sound on the tile floor, the brain matter that hung like a cloud in the air for one moment, two. 

None of them, Richie and Seth and Kate, had seen what had happened until it was too late, and Richie had watched as the body settled on the floor, the viscous fluid leaking from his head, and had thought, Good, and again, Good, before he realized how fucked he - they - actually were. 

Because that’s when Seth had said Richie’s name and that’s when Richie had known, had fucking known, and his eyes had swept over to him, and fuck, the blood that bloomed like a rose on Seth’s chest, and Kate had screamed, loud and long, and none of them had moved for what seemed like hours, like days, Richie’s hand still on his useless fucking gun, unable to reach out for Seth, and Richie had bit his tongue so hard that he could feel the blood coating his teeth, and Seth had looked at him like he couldn’t quite figure out what had happened, feeling strange, feeling weak, his face pale and confused, and then Seth had said Richie’s name again, and nothing else had mattered. 

Good, Richie had thought, when Seth had been shot and all of their lives had ended. 

Good, when nothing would ever be the same again. 

Richie had seen red, or maybe white, or maybe nothing at all, remembering little between then and now, remembering nothing besides his hands and Seth’s mouth and the slow spread of blood on Seth’s shirt. And Richie had opened his mouth, maybe to scream or cry or growl or fucking something, but no sound had come out, and Kate had been crying, these awful gasping, choking sobs that sounded like they would tear her apart, and Seth was saying something over and over again, like it was painful, like he had been swallowing glass, but Richie hadn’t been able to hear it, whatever it was, Richie couldn’t make out the words, because all at once everyone was screaming, shouting, yelling, this cacophony of sounds that was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life, and Richie had yelled at them all to shut up, to shut the fuck up, everyone shut the fuck up, his fingers turning into claws, his teeth into fangs, the ridges that rise, his face contorting into more angles, changing from human to not. 

And Seth had been looking at him, and Kate, the tears on her cheeks wet and shiny and bright, and Richie had turned from them towards the hostages, screaming at them, his gun shaking in his clawed hand, pointing at them and then not, pointing at anywhere and then nowhere. And they had been huddled together along the wall, most of them with their heads down, scared, but he had been able to see that none of them were talking, none of them were screaming, and he had been able to see that none of them had made a goddamn sound. 

And Richie had turned back to Seth, watching his blood-red lips mouth Richie’s name again and again and again, his eyes fluttering to a close, unsteady on his feet, ready to fall, ready to give in. 

And all at once, the voices in Richie’s head had stopped. 

 

XVII

(Before they get Seth back to the motel, Kate’s bloody fingerprints on Seth’s skin and the backseat of the car and Richie’s now human face, on the shirt that Richie pulls over his head to give to Kate as she tries to put pressure on the wound, on her own clothes, screaming at Richie to help her, to help him, even as Richie ignores her and guns the engine with the sharp taste of metal in his mouth, squealing out of the parking lot on screeching tires, running through three red lights and two stop signs, deftly swerving to avoid any other cars in his way, before they get back to the motel and have to carry Seth up the four flights of stairs to their room, Seth’s mouth perfectly balanced on Richie’s neck, his limp arms around Richie’s shoulders, Richie running as fast as he can without harming Seth anymore, Kate leaking tears behind him, still sobbing, but silently, before they place Seth carefully on the bed and Kate runs to the bathroom to get all of the towels so that she can press them to the wound, even if it’s too late, even if he’s lost too much blood, pressing them roughly enough that Seth emits a loud groan, a hissed, “Fuck,” through his teeth, his pale, pale, lips, and Richie growls at Kate and tells her to be fucking careful, Richie with his useless hands and even more useless mouth, and before Seth says, “Richie, you’ve got to get it out,” meaning the bullet, because of course it wasn’t a through-and-through, the pain still resonating inside of him, on the move, Seth’s face devoid of any color, his pleading lips as he asks Richie to dig it out with his fingers, fuck the consequences, fuck the fact that none of this would help him, Richie shaking his head, saying that he can’t, he won’t, and before Richie can even think to press his mouth to Seth’s, he’s placing his fingers on the vein in Seth’s neck and saying Seth’s name and Seth’s saying, “No, Richard, fuck no,” and again, “No,” and again, and Kate is looking between them and realizing what’s at stake, finally clued in, and asking Richie if he can do it, if he can turn Seth, Seth’s indignant, “Fuck you,” trying to roll away, to crawl away from both of them on bloodless hands and knees, and Richie pulling him back and framing his face with both of his palms and saying Seth’s name, again and again and again, until Seth finally looks at him, the tears that are sliding down Richie’s face because none of this is what he wants, none of this is what he has been preparing for, even though it’s so painfully obvious that everything has been leading to this, Richie crying and begging Seth, asking him to live for Richie, for Kate, for himself, his lips on Seth’s lips, practiced and careful and wanting, before Seth stares at him for a long time, the burning pain in his chest slowly fading, becoming numb, washing away with all of the blood in his body, before Seth kisses him back and says, “Richard,” and says, “Please,” and says, “Don’t do this,” before Kate flinches and Richie closes his eyes, and Seth still says, “No,” a hundred times, a thousand times, a million, no, more than that, his voice hoarse and growing colder, softer, a whisper that none of them can hear anymore, before they kiss one last time, Richie’s blood mixing with Seth’s in both of their mouths, before Richie pulls back and apologizes for the first time in his life, before Seth tries to pull away, because he knows, he fucking knows what this means, but is held still by Kate’s tiny hands, before Richie opens his mouth and slides his fangs out and sinks them into Seth’s neck like he’s nothing more than a victim, than a meal, before Seth says Richard’s name one last time before he dies, his heartbeat slowing to nothing, before all of this:

Richie had put a bullet through the brain of every single person in that bank. 

He never once hesitated.)

 

XVIII

Seth lives. 

(Sort of). 

 

XIX

Kate brings him the first, because every time Richie would ask about it, Seth would punch him in the face, his fingers slipping into claws, his teeth into fangs, at the smell of blood on the corner of Richie’s mouth. 

She brings him a man, slightly drunk and very interested in getting to know Kate in the biblical sense, and Seth had been hiding behind the door of the motel room when they both slipped through, and it was easy, easy enough for Seth to get the better of him, push him down from behind, slip his fangs in the man’s neck as he lay there writhing on the floor, the blood that tastes like metal, slightly sweet, slightly bitter, on his tongue. It was easy to drain him, even easier to get rid of the body (they had been doing this for months), but Seth had locked himself in the bathroom afterwards, Richie knocking on the door for five straight minutes before giving up and picking the lock, Seth sitting on the lid of the toilet with his head in his hands, and Richie shadowing the doorway, this unreadable expression on his face. 

Richie had opened his mouth to say something stupid, but Seth had held up one of his hands, didn’t want to hear it, so Richie had closed his mouth again, breathing out long and loud in the space between them. Seth hadn’t really said anything to Richie since he had died on that bed, hadn’t really touched him, either, sleeping on the couch when one was available, in Kate’s bed when once wasn’t, never letting himself be alone with Richie for longer than two, three minutes, tops, didn’t want his hands and face and heart to give himself away. 

Seth says, “I don’t want to do that again,” and his voice is hoarse, empty. He means the man, he means the body, he means living as he is now, something other than human.

And Richie sighs and says, “I’m not going to let you die, Seth. I will force you to feed, if I have to.”

Seth looks up at him, and the look on his face cuts through Richie like a knife. “Fuck you, Richard.”

Richie says Seth’s name, almost apologetic, but Seth gets up and tries to get past him without touching. Richie places a hand on Seth’s chest, in the exact same spot the bullet once was, and Seth stops and moves away from him again. Richie swallows, feels something sharp deep inside of him, cutting into whatever is left of his heart, and says, “I didn’t want,” but stops, starts again, “I never wanted this, either.”

Seth looks away, looks back, and when he speaks, his voice is like ice. “At least she gave you a choice, Richard.”

Richie’s hand stars to burn, the hand with the eye, and when he looks down, he realizes that his claws are digging into his palm, deep enough to shred his skin. He’s bleeding like crazy, and it would be unusual if he had fed in the last three weeks that Seth had been avoiding him, but he hadn’t, hadn’t even stepped in to drink his fill tonight. Seth looks down, and Richie knows that he can smell the blood, knows that he can taste it, wants him, craves it, so Richie opens his hand and offers it to him, the blood welling in the dip of his skin. 

“Richie,” Seth says, a refusal, but Richie nods, he's okay with this, he’s always been okay with this. Even when they had been kids, Richie had always given a piece of himself to Seth if Seth needed it, had given him more, given him everything, always his brother and his protecter, from the moment he was born. 

From the moment he killed their father. 

“Go ahead,” Richie says, and brings his hand up to Seth’s mouth. 

And Seth looks at him one more time, searching Richie’s face, before he lowers his lips to Richie’s palm and drinks. 

It’s not an apology, on either side, but it's a start, Seth draining Richie until the cuts on his palm close over, skin overlapping skin, healed. He’s still holding Richie’s hand, and they’re both standing there in silence, and Seth leans up and presses his mouth to Richie’s and Richie lets him in, a soft breath shared between them, Seth’s fingers sliding into Richie’s hair, pulling him down farther, and Richie’s hands are curling around Seth’s waist, and they’re sliding together like perfectly matched puzzle pieces, even, fitting together smoothly. 

Richie breathes Seth's name, and Seth bites down hard on Richie’s tongue, and neither of them say anything for awhile after that, until Kate comes back from wherever she was hiding, her hesitant knock on the bathroom door. She smiles when she sees them, their disheveled hair and fucked lips, and the beard burn that Richie has on his cheeks from Seth’s stubble, and Seth’s shirt untucked and hanging open, and they both blush when she says, “You two are back together, then?”

And Richie wants to say yes, unequivocally yes, but he looks at Seth, doesn’t want to say anything out of turn, doesn’t want to ruin this tentative truce, this fragile agreement. Seth looks between them, shakes his head once to clear it, Richie’s touch still burning on his skin, but doesn’t answer. 

He says, instead, “How do you two feel about Wyoming?”

 

XX

They live. 

(Sort of).


End file.
